"I identified the picture of a major who was one of the KGB men. And I told him about the general in charge."
"What else?"
Trishin sat there with a thoughtful look on his face. He had work to do. He had no desire to sit there and repeat the whole conversation he'd had with the Captain's brother. "That's all he was interested in. Why is the Brest Militia concerned with Yuri Shumakov's investigation?"
"We're not at liberty to discuss that," Fomin snapped. "All we need now is for you to sign this form saying you cooperated willingly. Then we'll be out of your way."
He brought a sheet of paper and a pen over to Trishin. Unnoticed, Latsina had moved around behind the chair.
The young salesman took the pen and bent over to read the document. He saw immediately that it wasn't at all what Fomin had described. It was some kind of strange legal form. He was about to object when an arm suddenly clamped about his neck in a vise-like grip. A slender hand slammed against his face, pressing a cloth over his nose and mouth. He smelled a strong, pungent odor and tried to reach up to grab at the cloth. Fomin seized his arms. The young man attempted to put up a struggle, but now he was breathing hard from the exertion, drawing the fumes rapidly into his lungs. His arms suddenly felt rubbery and his vision became blurry. His head slumped forward.
"He's out," said Latsina, removing the cloth from Trishin's face. It had been impregnated with a powerful anesthesia-like drug developed for the KGB. Both of the "militiamen" had taken an antidote prior to entering the apartment so they would not be affected by the fumes. When the drug wore off, it would leave no detectable traces.
"Get a kitchen knife," Fomin ordered. Both men were pulling on rubber gloves. "Make it look messy. I'll upset a few things to give the appearance of a struggle."
Vadim Trishin would never be aware of whether the drug had run its course. When the pair left shortly afterward, his body lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, the wooden-handled knife plunged into his back.
Yuri Shumakov managed to put the case of the mysterious explosion temporarily out of his mind as he spent the afternoon wandering through the Brest Fortress complex. He viewed battle scars left by the merciless pounding of the Nazis, trudged across the Ceremonial Square where thousands had gathered to hear eulogies to the fallen, and lingered over a wealth of historical exhibits and documentary films in the sprawling museum. But as soon as he hit the road back to Minsk, all the details he had been gathering about that fateful September afternoon in 1991 came cascading back into his consciousness.
He considered the facts as he knew them, attempting to fill in the gaps using his best deductive reasoning. He started with Major Romashchuk's involvement. Since there was little doubt that he had no longer been active in the KGB, it appeared the so-called "inspection team" was most likely a rogue operation. They had gone into the ammunition storage building with Anatoli, leaving a man outside to occupy the guard posted there. They had remained about fifteen minutes, not long enough for a genuine inspection but plenty of time to hold the soldiers inside at bay and load a supply of weapons and ammunition into the truck. Had they shot Anatoli when he tried to resist? And what of the outside guard? He must have been overpowered in some way before they loaded the truck. He was among those killed in the blast. The intruders could have used time-fused incendiary devices to set off the explosion after they had left the area.
It all made perfectly good sense and seemed to satisfy Yuri's need for pinning down the blame for his brother's death. But then he began to understand his earlier uneasiness, the disturbing feeling that he had overlooked something. He had failed to consider possible contradictions, other alternatives. The most glaring involved Vadim Trishin's concern over fallout from the previous weapons theft probe.
Yuri had blithely accepted the outcome of that investigation as an exoneration of Anatoli. But was it? Thinking back over the summary he had read in the Kiev military file, he had to admit it not so much exonerated Anatoli as declared the evidence insufficient to support charges against him. Maybe it was only a subtle difference, but it raised disquieting possibilities.
Point One: the shot through the middle of the forehead was not the sort of thing that would result from a struggle. It had more the appearance of an execution. Point Two: if you accepted the theory that the intruders were on a mission of theft, then an execution would appear more likely the result of a disagreement, or a falling-out between confederates. It would give the impression that Captain Anatoli Shumakov, previously accused of involvement in a weapons theft, had been a participant, a co-conspirator, albeit an extremely unlucky one.
Yuri rumpled his brow at such a repugnant thought. He could not, would not accept it, but he knew that to the right people, it would make just as much sense as his original thesis. To someone who had not known Anatoli except through a recitation of cold, lifeless facts on paper, it could just as easily bear the ring of truth.
By the time he arrived home around nine o'clock that evening, he was a man of badly frayed emotions. He remained convinced that he should continue to pursue his independent probe of the explosion, but with the introduction of Major Romashchuk into the equation, he had a clear duty to bring it to General Borovsky's attention. But if he did, it would quite likely lead to a blackening of Anatoli's good name and memory. That left him facing a real dilemma, personal duty versus his brother's honor. He had never shirked his responsibilities and didn't relish the prospect of doing it now. But the cords that bound him to his brother's fate had never tugged stronger.
He waved at the boys and gave Larisa a perfunctory peck on the cheek. Homework time was obviously over. Petr appeared absorbed in a sports magazine while Aleksei worked on a sleight-of-hand trick one of his friends had taught him. When it was perfected, he would try it on his father.
Larisa sat down with Yuri as he began yet another late meal. "The prodigal father returns," she said, propping her elbows on the table and leaning her chin against her cupped hands. "Petr could have used your help earlier. He had a history paper to write on the Crimean War. Was the trip worthwhile?"
"I'm not sure." A troubled frown tugged at the corners of his eyes. "It raised some questions I wasn't prepared for."
"Really? I thought questions were an investigator's meat and potatoes. What kind of questions?"
He gave her a pained expression. He couldn't very well explain his problem without getting into the matter of Major Romashchuk, and that was a subject he was forbidden to discuss except with General Borovsky. Besides, right now it was the last thing he wanted to dwell upon. "I'd rather not talk about it now, Larisa. It's been a long day and a long drive. I'm worn out."
She watched anxiously as he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. She had been warning him he wasn't indestructible, that all this overwork would catch up with him one of these days. "Do you have a headache? Can I get you something?"
"No thanks. I'm all right."
He sat and ate in silence, avoiding her gaze, and finally pushed up from the table with nearly half of his food still on the plate. All the conflicting thoughts boiling around in his mind had effectively destroyed his appetite. He had begun to wonder if this was turning into something like the Crimean War, a classic disaster.
"I think I'll go on to bed," he told her.
21
Though a good night's sleep had helped put Yuri in a better humor, he was no closer to resolving his dilemma. When General Borovsky's secretary arrived, he was told the KGB director would be attending a meeting at the Prime Minister's office in Government House most of the day. He welcomed the news like a temporary stay of execution. It would allow him a few more hours to decide how to treat this new, disturbing information concerning the elusive Major Nikolai Romashchuk.